


Is That A Cucumber In Your Pocket?

by hafital



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: First Time, Light Angst, M/M, Sorry Not Sorry, episode related vignettes, no vegetables were harmed in the writing of this story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21769543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hafital/pseuds/hafital
Summary: Duncan finds a mysterious box waiting for him one day. Is it a bomb? Is it a present? Who is it from?
Relationships: Duncan MacLeod/Methos (Highlander)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 75
Collections: Highlander Secret Santa (ShortCuts) 2019





	Is That A Cucumber In Your Pocket?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pat_t](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pat_t/gifts).



> Written for Pat_t as part of the Highlander Holiday Shortcut Fest 2019. Many many thanks to my beta reader!

Duncan tried not to think about Charlie too much. Sometimes, though, it felt like Kalas’s quickening still rattled, attempting to eat its way out from the inside. Even Cord’s quickening was easier to swallow. 

Returning to the city helped. Seacouver was home, and it welcomed him back. Things got a little easier as he got into a rhythm. 

One day, he returned to the loft after teaching two classes at the University to find a box waiting for him on his doorstep. It was a large, somewhat flat, cardboard box. “Hm,” he thought. He hadn’t been expecting a delivery of any sort.

He picked up the box, hoping it wasn’t a bomb. That would be just what he needed. It was heavy. With a careful shake, he decided it didn’t contain anything living. He brought it inside, leaving it on the counter before having a shower and changing into more comfortable clothes. 

But the box teased him with its mystery. As he rubbed his hair dry with a towel, he went over to the counter and grabbed a box cutter. Inside the cardboard box was another smaller wooden box with a note and a brochure stuck to the top. 

The note read, “A Gift.” That’s it. That was all it said. 

The brochure had pictures of beautiful wineries from all around the world. More pictures of happy winemakers tending vines, cheerful employees checking the barrels, and helpful young people waiting by the phones to take your order. It described a wine of the month subscription service. For a fee, the service handpicked three bottles of wine and sent them on a monthly basis. A footnote said the wine was conflict free, which was a nice touch. 

He slid open the lid of the wooden box. There were three bottles packed inside – a red, a rosé, and a white wine. 

“Hm,” he thought again, picking up the bottle of red. It came from a winery in Uruguay. “What do you know?” 

He figured it must have come from a client, someone who didn’t want to be identified. It was a thoughtful gift. Well, he’d figure out who it was and thank them anyway. He found his corkscrew and opened the bottle of red – a pinot noir – and selected the correct wine glass. He took a sip. It wasn’t half bad, either. 

Later, after Methos appeared on his doorstep, after Kristin, and after Claudia and Walter had their misadventures and left, another box appeared from the subscription service, the third so far. 

Duncan brought the box over to the counter as Methos paced the length of the loft. He’d learned the full extent of Alexa’s illness, and though it didn’t change his commitment to her, it had made him second guess what he should do next. The oldest Immortal looked lost and confused.

“What do you think I should do?” asked Methos, finally stopping to frown at Duncan. 

It meant something that he would ask for Duncan’s advice. He gave Methos a thoughtful look, then opened the box and set the wine on the counter. “I think…I think I’ve seen Alexa around now for—” he counted back. “About four months, since she’s been working at Joe’s. And I’ve never seen her smile quite like the way she smiles at you. I think you know what you want to do.”

Methos frowned harder, but he didn’t deny it. He noticed the bottles. “What’s the wine for?” he asked, grumpy but clearly needing to change the subject. 

“Oh,” said Duncan, picking up one bottle and then another. He wanted to try the bottle from Spain’s Andalucía region. “It’s a wine of the month club. Or something. I’m not sure who got me the subscription, bit of a mystery. But a box comes every month. Three bottles.”

To his surprise, Methos blushed, both amused and embarrassed at the same time. But then, he frowned again. “Are they any good?”

“Pretty decent,” he said, shooting Methos a suspicious look. “Occasionally excellent. Sometimes awful.” He pulled a stool over to the counter in front of Methos, giving it a pat. “Sit.”

Methos shook his head. “I can’t sit.” He turned as if he were about to start pacing again.

Duncan blocked him with an arm. “I said…” a gentle push. “Sit.” 

With a scowl, Methos did as ordered and promptly looked miserable. Duncan opened the bottle, then let it air for a bit. He took a fresh baguette he’d bought that morning and sliced several pieces. In a small dish, he poured olive oil, seasoned with salt and pepper and a bit of balsamic vinegar. He found some olives. He didn’t have the right cheese, but the Parmesan would do in a pinch, and he sliced several pieces. Lastly, he poured two glasses of the Spanish red, giving one glass to Methos. 

Methos could only resist for so long before he tore a piece of bread and dunked it in the oil, then took a sip of wine. He looked thoughtful as he swallowed, raising an eyebrow in a “not bad” kind of way. Duncan thought he saw a hint of a smile. 

He took a sip of his own wine. It was rich and fruity, the kind of wine that would make excellent sangria. They ate in silence, then Methos reached across and placed his hand over Duncan’s. “Thanks,” he said. 

Duncan felt his heart melt for this strange, unusual, ancient young man. He tangled their fingers together. “Any time.”

Continuing to eat, they sipped their wine. It was nice.

* * *

Methos’s new flat was not far from Le Blues Bar. It was large and airy and he’d arranged to have his things in storage delivered. Between the both of them, it took only a few minutes to pack up the rest of Methos’s belongings, scattered throughout the barge, into two boxes.

“You don’t have to leave,” said Duncan. “If you don’t want to.”

Methos grinned. “You’re just saying that because you secretly want me to keep the barge.”

“No,” said Duncan. “Absolutely not. I do not want that. On second thought, let me help you take these things to your car.”

Methos laughed, which was a good sound to hear. They were heading above deck when there was a knock. They looked at each other. “Expecting company?” asked Methos. 

“Hang on,” said Duncan, setting down the box so he could answer the door. It was a deliveryman, handing over two new separate boxes. Duncan signed for them, and then carried them to the galley. 

One of the boxes, he knew, was the wine delivery. He’d successfully transferred the subscription to Paris, not wanting to either cancel it or put it on hold. But he didn’t know what the second box was for. 

“Open it,” said Methos, with a shrug. 

Duncan opened the box with the wine first, lining the bottles up on the galley counter. Methos inspected each label. The second box also had another box inside, with a note and a brochure stuck to the top. 

The note read, “A Gift,” just like the last time, with nothing else. He handed the note to Methos. 

Inside the second box was an array of cheeses. A lot of cheese. Different kinds. The brochure showed happy cheesemakers standing in front of many stacks of cheese, cheerful employees cutting and wrapping the cheeses, and helpful young people waiting by the phones to take your orders. 

Methos eyed him with something of an evil glint. “Another mysterious client?” he asked. 

Duncan put a wheel of Manchego down and, with his hands on his hips, made himself very tall as he glowered at Methos. “I don’t know,” he said in a very pointed manner. “I have no idea who it could be.”

Methos shrank away, but he also looked highly amused and very pleased with himself. 

“Come on,” said Duncan, gruffly. He picked up the box of Methos’s things and marched to the door. “What are you waiting for?”

Still grinning, Methos grabbed the other box, and followed him to the car. 

At about five the next afternoon, the barge felt too quiet. Without Methos’s presence, without that distraction, Duncan felt the hand of the Dark Quickening press on his back. He missed Sean Burns keenly, and then his mind leapt to Warren, with that sad broken look in his eyes, too afraid to face his own guilt. 

He’d gotten used to Methos’s comings and goings, his daily rhythms, the quiet noises he made, irritating though they sometimes were. 

He picked up the phone and dialed. Methos answered on the second ring. “Are you going to come over and help me drink this wine and eat this cheese?” he demanded. 

There was a pause on the other end before Methos answered. “I’ll be over in ten minutes.”

* * *

Methos shot him in the back. The nerve of him.

When Keane stomped into Duncan’s life on the heels of Bordeaux, he brought anger and decades of resentment. He brought regret. One of a thousand regrets. But Keane reminded Duncan that life was precious. And his friends, those irritating but alive and interfering friends of his, they were precious. 

Even when they shot him in the back. 

But what did he want from Methos? Did he want an apology? Did he want things to return to the way they were? Did he want Methos to look at him the way he used to? 

Duncan felt unsettled, as if Kronos’s quickening still bubbled inside him. But he came home to the barge after running errands to find three boxes waiting for him. 

The first two contained his usual shipment of wine and cheese. Seeing them brought up a sense of loss. It made him realize he missed Methos. He missed his friend. 

He opened the third box. It was another monthly subscription, this time for oddly shaped fruit. Like the others, the note said, “A Gift.” 

Honestly, thought Duncan. But he picked up a mutant-looking apple that had a second apple growing out of its side and ate it. 

The next day, there was a knock on his door. It was another deliveryman, delivering two boxes. One was a monthly subscription to different kinds of hot sauces, and the other was an underwear of the month club – all boxer briefs, all in fanciful colors and patterns. 

Before he had a chance to process how ridiculous this was, there was another knock on his door. Three more boxes were delivered: a box full of snacks, a box of different kinds of nuts, a box of different kinds of spices. 

By the end of the day, five additional subscriptions services delivered boxes: a box of clothing, a box of seeds for a garden (What garden!? He wanted to shout.), a box of different kinds of socks, a box of ties, a box of handkerchiefs. 

Every single one of the boxes contained a similar note stuck to the top. “A Gift.”

When he woke up the next morning to a delivery of three more boxes, he called Joe. “Help!” he said. “It’s an attack.”

Joe arrived on the heels of several more subscription boxes – a box of teas, a box of scented candles, _another_ box of underwear… 

Joe took one look around the barge, filled to the brim with the oddest assortment of random items ever collected, and started laughing so hard he risked having a coronary. 

“I don’t see what’s so funny,” said Duncan. 

“Who’s sending you these things?” wheezed Joe in between laughs. 

“WHO DO YOU THINK?” shouted Duncan. 

Joe stared at Duncan, a little bug-eyed, like he was straining on the commode, but he couldn’t hold it in any longer and started laughing again. 

Duncan sighed. “This has to stop. It’s madness.”

“Have you tried calling him?” asked Joe. 

“Oh, you’re no help at all,” said Duncan, who felt his shoulders rise up to his ears at the mere suggestion. He sent Joe home with a box of candied fruit. 

But, not ten minutes after Joe left, there was another knock on his door. Four more boxes arrived. Duncan knew when to admit defeat. It took him several minutes to locate his phone. Methos answered on the second ring. 

“Get over here,” said Duncan.

“Mac? Is that you?” 

“Don’t play with me,” he said. “Get over here. Now.”

Pause. Then, “I’ll be right there.”

While he waited, Duncan stared moodily at the mess spread across the barge. Ten minutes later, he heard another knock. He hoped to God it was Methos and not another deliveryman. “It’s unlocked,” called Duncan, pinned down by the galley and unable to get to the door. 

Methos stuck his head in and saw the sea of boxes. His eyes widened to the size of quarters. Gingerly, hopping from open space to open space, he looked around at the mess and whistled with astonishment. “Wow.”

“Wow?” said Duncan, trying to restrain himself. “Wow? Is that all you’re going to say?”

“What do you want me to say?” answered Methos, the picture of innocence. 

“I know these are all from you,” cried Duncan, arms flailing. 

Methos had the nerve to raise one hand to his chest, mouthing, “Moi?” 

“That’s it,” said Duncan. “Where’s my sword.”

He dug around for his sword. Methos laughed, but then scrambled backward when Duncan found his sword and charged, heedless of the many boxes in his path. “All right, all right,” cried Methos, holding up his hands in defense. Duncan stopped his advance. “They’re from me. I ordered them and sent them. They’re all from me.” He paused, then tilted his head. “When did you know?”

The question surprised Duncan, since he was pretty sure Methos had known he’d known. “Since Seacouver.” He waggled his finger at Methos. “Don’t pretend like you had no idea I knew. You’re not as sneaky as you think you are.”

Methos smiled. “Guess not.” He looked around at the mess. “Maybe I got a little carried away.”

“Maybe?” asked Duncan in outrage, unable to keep his voice at a reasonable volume. “I lost count how many box subscriptions have arrived. There are two boxes of underwear of the month. Two!” He wasn’t certain why he added that last part. 

A laugh escaped Methos, but he tried to hide it. “Are you wearing a pair now?”

Duncan swelled up, like a hot air balloon. “I might be,” he said, too loudly. 

Methos pinched his lips tight, really trying. It was too much for Duncan. He started laughing, and then Methos started laughing, and soon they were both falling over, clutching their stomachs, trying to get air into their lungs they were laughing so hard. 

It took several minutes before they stopped, eventually winding down with a sea of boxes between them. And then a long stretch of silence followed, with both looking at each other and not knowing what to say. 

“I’m sorry,” said Methos, placing a hand on the box of socks. “For all this.”

And there it was, that ache in his eyes. Methos could apologize for getting carried away signing Duncan up for monthly deliveries of underwear and oddly shaped fruit, but he couldn’t apologize for never telling him about the Horsemen. It was one apology substituting for another.

But Duncan realized it didn’t matter. He didn’t need an apology. It hurt, and perhaps their friendship would suffer for it, but his anger was gone. They were here, and together, and all their future years lay before them. They could be friends, if he wanted. And he did want it. _I want him to live._

“You’re forgiven,” said Duncan, his voice thin, breaking.

Methos nodded, but then his face fell and he had to look away. Duncan crossed the obstacle course of his living room, taking Methos into a hug, letting him rest his forehead against Duncan’s shoulder. 

“Now,” said Duncan, pulling away to look at Methos. “Answer this carefully. Are any more boxes coming?”

Methos’s lips twitched with a partial smile. “Um,” he looked around. “I think the box of artisan lip balm was probably the last.”

Duncan frowned. “Did I get a box of artisan lip balm?” There was a knock on the door. Methos’s eyes went very wide. He backed away slowly. Duncan felt his face grow hot. “Methos,” he growled, stalking after him. 

Four more deliveries arrived before they finally ended. Duncan made Methos unpack everything and find places to store the hot sauces and the snacks and other food items. He would probably cancel most of the subscriptions, but he might keep the delivery of oddly shaped fruit. And the spices. They looked interesting. An hour later, and he had his barge more or less back to normal. 

He opened one of the bottles of wine and laid out a spread of cheese, slicing the oddly shaped fruit, and adding the nuts and berries from one of the boxes. 

“You’ll keep at least one of the underwear subscriptions though, won’t you?” asked Methos, with an impish look. 

Duncan narrowed his eyes. Right, he could play this game. He leaned across the counter and said, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

He was pleased when Methos blushed to almost the same color as the rosé. Duncan took a sip of his wine and waggled his eyebrows, already planning to send Methos home with a box of artisan lip balm.

* * *

Duncan woke early, the dawn’s light falling in through the barge’s portals and landing right on his face before six thirty in the morning. Paris was quiet at this time, but as he lay on his back listening, he heard a soft, not-quite-snore. He lifted his head and caught sight of the top of Methos’s head, sacked out on his couch. It made him smile.

It had been nearly three in the morning before they’d gone to bed. Though he was tired, Duncan couldn’t sleep anymore. He put on a robe and went to the galley kitchen to make coffee. 

They’d left a mess there. Plates and glasses everywhere, along with half drunk bottles of champagne. He thought he should give Joe a call later, make sure he got home okay after the night’s adventures. Amanda had gone straight to the airport for an early flight. He had no idea when he’d see her again.

Some of the fear and terror he felt when Joe and Amanda had been kidnapped still lingered on his skin, along with a trace of O’Rourke’s quickening, like a pulse of adrenaline in his blood. Perhaps that’s why he couldn’t sleep. Another chapter ended, but he was still here. And what’s more, Methos was still here, too. 

There was a knock on the front door. Duncan checked the time and wondered who would be knocking at fifteen past seven in the morning. He got up and went to answer it. Of course, it had to be none other than a delivery of his monthly boxes of wine, cheese, and fruit. 

“Bit early in the day, isn’t it?” he said to the man, taking possession of all three boxes. They came from the same service, so they tended to appear on the same day. 

The deliveryman gave him a silent, flat stare that basically said, “Do you want my job?” 

“Uh, _merci_ ,” he said, trying to be cheerful. It got him a death-look in answer. 

Duncan brought the boxes inside, carefully navigating the terrain across the living room, and setting them down on the counter. He resumed drinking his coffee and Methos continued to sleep, dead to the world, little more than a tuft of dark hair and a pointy nose sticking out from under the pile of blankets. 

He’d open the boxes later. Maybe he could entice Methos to stick around and help him eat it all. It got him thinking of that time Methos sent him over twenty boxes all within a forty-eight hour period. That was almost a year ago, he realized. Much had happened since then. 

From the Horseman to Ahriman. It had been a long, difficult, road. 

An idea came to him. He turned to his laptop, dialed onto the internet, and began searching. It took about fifteen minutes for him to find what he wanted. He made a call and placed an order, asking for rush delivery. 

Methos snorted in his sleep, shifting so his boxer-clad ass stuck out over the edge of the couch. He was tempted to tell Methos he could move to the bed, if he wanted. It always surprised him that Methos, the wiliest and most paranoid of Immortals, trusted him enough to sleep in his presence. He decided not to wake Methos, and went out for a run instead. 

The fresh morning air cleared his mind, along with the rhythmic pounding of his feet. After ten miles, he came back to the barge and found Methos still sleeping. Duncan had to admire his determination. He made a fresh pot of coffee and brought a mug over to wave it under Methos’s nose. 

Methos grunted. 

“I’m going to take a shower,” he said to the tuft of hair that was Methos, setting the mug down on the coffee table. “Maybe you can do something about breakfast.”

Because it was sticking out, Duncan tweaked the tip of Methos’s nose. Methos grunted again, more irritated this time. 

When Duncan came out of the shower, Methos was standing by the stove in only his boxers, holding his cup of coffee in one hand and stirring scrambled eggs in a pan with the other. 

They eyed each other, both bare-chested, Duncan wearing a damp towel wrapped around his waist. It was funny to see Methos turn red from embarrassment. 

“Hello, honey,” said Duncan in a teasing tone. “Glad to see you’re awake. Finally.”

Methos scowled. “I suppose you got up at some ungodly hour.”

“Six thirty,” he said, grinning at Methos’s look of horror. He went over to his dresser, hunting around for clean clothing. 

As he tugged on underwear and put on a pair of jeans, he was struck by the intimacy of the morning, how comfortable they both were, getting dressed and cooking breakfast. They had been here before, in this quasi-land of not-quite-roommates and maybe-more-than-friends – before Bordeaux, before Ahriman – and they were here again. It made him realize that, since Tessa, Methos might be his most steadfast partner through the years. 

He sat on his bed, lost in thought, until Methos came over to lean against the hull, still working on his coffee, and still only wearing his boxers...Did he do that on purpose? 

“How are you feeling?” asked Methos. 

Was that why Methos had stuck around? Was he worried about him? Duncan had taken a quickening, and it had been a very odd night all around, leaving him in a strange mood. He guessed Methos had picked up on that. “All right. The run helped. What are your plans for the day?”

Methos grumbled, heading back to the galley. “I have to head into the Sorbonne for a bit. I’ve got meetings with a couple of students, and then need to see to some administrative stuff in the office.”

They sat down at the galley and Methos served him breakfast. “Well, I can go with you, if you like,” he offered.

Duncan said the words without really thinking about it first, and then immediately regretted it, wondering if it made him look too lonely. But Methos smiled, more with his eyes than with his face. He nodded in agreement. It was that easy. 

It might have been the most relaxed day Duncan had had in too long a time. After they finished breakfast, and Methos finally got dressed, they headed into the city. He tended to forget this side of Methos – Adam Pierson, linguistics graduate student and professor. It was reassuring that Methos still taught, despite all the upheaval of recent years, a refreshing change from the persona of cranky oldest Immortal. Methos gave him a tour and it was fun to see everyone in the department perk up when they learned his name. 

“Ooohhh, Monsieur MacLeod,” said the savvy looking fifty-something admin in Methos’s department. “We _have_ heard of _you._ ”

Methos turned pink, which was the second time Methos had blushed that day, not that Duncan was counting. Duncan grinned, happy to make everyone’s acquaintance. 

“All right,” said Methos, ushering Duncan out of the office, ignoring his co-worker’s protests. “That’s quite enough of that.”

They returned to the barge, and cracked open the boxes of wine, cheese, and oddly shaped fruit, creating a spread across the coffee table. Duncan found it comforting, to sit there with Methos, to enjoy each other’s company. Things could never go back to how it had been before the Horseman stampeded into their lives, but they were good now. In fact, he thought they might be better. 

“Can I tell you something?” he asked. Methos, sprawled on the other side of the couch, precariously waved his wine glass as if to say, “Please. Continue.” “It’s about last night.”

This was his last burden, the final ache he held on to. At least for now. He told Methos about the dream he had while unconscious, what he had come to think of as the universe that was not meant to be. 

Methos changed position, sitting up to listen more closely. His eyes glinted in the soft light. Outside, Paris shone through the portal windows. “So, let me get this straight, without Duncan MacLeod around, we all lose our moral compass? Is that it? I love how your mind works. Do you wish to take my head now?” asked Methos.

“No,” he said, with an edge of panic. Even the thought made his hands shake. “God, no. It wasn’t _you_. In the dream.”

Methos’s smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Well that’s good. Do you want to know what I think?”

“Yes,” said Duncan. 

“I think that was one hell of a fever dream. To combat that, the doctor says drink more wine.” Methos grabbed the nearest bottle and poured the last of it into Duncan’s glass. “And eat more cheese. That should help. Definitely won’t give you any weird dreams.”

Duncan laughed. And, wouldn’t you know, it did help. They made a toast, and then continued eating and drinking until they finished all the wine, both dozing off the second there was any pause in the conversation. 

Carefully, he lifted Methos’s legs off his lap so he could get up, then knelt by Methos’s head. 

“Hey,” he said, poking Methos in his stomach, tugging on his hair. 

“Hm?” asked Methos, sleepy, a sliver of hazel showing as he tried to open his eyes. He sat up, but wasn’t any more awake upright than he was lying down.

“Would you prefer to sleep in the bed?”

Without quite opening his eyes, Methos raised his eyebrows. “With you?”

“Yes.”

Methos wrinkled his nose and squinted at him, but then he smiled with what may have been a leer. “To sleep? Or…?” His voice got very deep.

Duncan was about to ask just what Methos thought they’d be capable of after finishing three bottles of wine and eating more cheese than was strictly healthy for anyone, Immortal or otherwise. Then Methos slumped, falling asleep again. Duncan suppressed a laugh. 

If this was how slow they needed to go, then this was how slow they would go. 

Since he hadn’t planned on carrying the bastard, he woke Methos up enough for them to stumble toward the bed, stripping off their clothes down to their underwear. Duncan heard Methos’s soft snore just before he followed him into sleep. 

For the first time in a long while, Duncan slept until midmorning. He wasn’t sure what woke him. Could be the tourist boat honking as it sailed down the Seine. Could be the thumps and bumps and weird bed shifts he wasn’t used to. Or it could be the sudden, loud, “A ha!” Methos yelled practically in his ear. 

“Jesus,” cried Duncan, abruptly awake. “What is it?”

Methos waved what looked like a pair of Duncan’s underwear in his face. “I knew you kept one of the underwear subscriptions,” he said, triumphantly. 

Duncan sat up, the shock passing. He rubbed at his eyes. “What are you doing in my underwear drawer?” 

“I needed a fresh pair.” Methos made an offhand gesture, like he thought the answer was obvious and wondered why Duncan was being obtuse. 

“So you took one of mine?” he asked.

“What else was I supposed to do?” asked Methos. “It’s not like it’s the first time.”

“What?” asked Duncan.

“Uh, you didn’t know that?” asked Methos, with a head tilt. Duncan lunged after him. Methos yelped and slid away, but not before Duncan caught him and they ended up playing tug-of-war with Duncan’s underwear. 

“Methos,” he said, “You do realize we can go to your flat and get some of your own clothes.”

“Oh,” said Methos, like it hadn’t occurred to him that they could do that. He let go of the underwear. Duncan fell backward onto the bed. “And then we come back here?”

Duncan sat up again. He balled up his underwear and threw it at Methos, who caught it after it hit his face. “Yes,” he said. “And then we come back here. If that’s what you want to do.”

A smile teased at Methos’s lips as he sat down on the bed. Sometimes, like now, when they became quiet with each other, Duncan saw a glimpse of all five thousand years of Methos’s life through the window of those hazel eyes. “Okay,” said Methos, patting Duncan’s bare knee. “Let’s go.”

“What? Right now?”

“Yes,” said Methos, managing to make it both a question and a statement. 

Duncan flopped back onto the bed, allowing himself five seconds to stare up at the hull of the barge. He heard Methos talking to himself, opening and closing all of Duncan’s dresser drawers, and looking in his closet. A warmth spread across Duncan’s chest, traveling to the ends of his fingers and his toes. He smiled.

“Right now” turned out to be more like forty minutes from right now, after they both showered and got dressed, Methos borrowing heavily from Duncan’s wardrobe, and after they had at least a cup of coffee each and a bite to eat. 

Before they went to Methos’s flat, they had errands to run. Duncan needed to swing by the chemist, and Methos wanted to stick his head into Shakespeare and Co., and make sure things were running smoothly. They got hungry and sat down at a little brasserie around the corner from Darius’s church. It was almost past two in the afternoon when they finally walked up to Methos’s front door. 

A box waited on the doorstep. Somehow, Duncan was as surprised to see it as Methos. Although he’d placed the order and paid for rush delivery, he hadn’t expected it would arrive so soon. 

At first Methos seemed confused at the sight of the box. He looked at it and then at Duncan and then at the box again. Realization lit up his face. “Did you…?” he said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” answered Duncan, but he was smiling. 

Methos’s mouth opened and closed, but then he laughed, handing Duncan his keys as he picked up the box. “What did you get me?

“Only one way to find out,” he said. 

They went inside, setting the box down on the kitchen counter. Duncan wandered around, inspecting all of Methos’s artwork, while Methos cut open the cardboard. He smirked when he read the note, showing it to Duncan: “A Gift.” Then, he finally opened the box. 

Inside was an artful array of vegetables: courgettes and cucumbers and peppers, parsnips and carrots, tomatoes and potatoes, one or two eggplants. But each vegetable was deformed in some way, having grown to look like a phallus or another part of human anatomy. The tomato had mounds like a rather pert backside. The potato looked like two round breasts. Duncan didn’t quite know what was going on with eggplants. 

“Wow,” he said. He felt his cheeks warm. It had seemed innocently funny yesterday morning when he saw it on the internet. Somehow it was far more pornographic in person. 

Methos stared down at the colorful box of pornographic vegetables, frozen in shock. Duncan had a moment when he feared he’d completely miscalculated until Methos started shaking like he was having a fit. He burst out laughing. “Oh my God, you didn’t,” he said.

“I think I did,” answered Duncan. 

“This is the best gift,” said Methos, laughing as he manhandled all the vegetables, looking at each one.

“Well, that’s good. I’m pleased, I guess. Not sure how I feel, to be honest,” said Duncan, half laughing, half feeling queasy. 

“Mac, this is perfect,” said Methos. He picked up a well-hung two-legged carrot and played with its penis. 

“Stop,” said Duncan, laughing for real now, taking the carrot out of Methos's hands. “Leave him alone. Put it down.”

Methos lifted the cucumber that looked like a huge erect phallus, round bulbous head and everything. They both stared at it. 

“Is it weird to be aroused by vegetables?” asked Duncan.

“Perhaps not quite as weird as chopping them for stew and then eating them will be,” said Methos. 

That did it. They both collapsed, laughing too hard to speak, though that didn’t stop Methos from trying. 

“Is that a…” he wheezed.

“No,” cried Duncan, grabbing Methos. “Don’t say it.”

“Is that a cuc—” 

“No, Methos. We already carry swords,” said Duncan, trying to clamp his hand over Methos’s mouth, but Methos was a wily bastard. Duncan pushed him up against the wall. “Don’t say it.”

“Cucumb—” muffled noises, high-pitched laughter, “In…pocket…”

In desperation, Duncan kissed him. Methos immediately melted, and the kiss became soft and earnest. Duncan felt his lower back tighten, sparks running up his spine. He took in a shuddering breath, loosening his hold. Methos only kissed him deeper, making a small noise, exploring. He brought his arms around Duncan, still holding that damned cucumber, but one hand sank into Duncan’s hair, guiding him. 

They pulled apart. “Or are you happy to see me?” finished Methos, a little out of breath. 

It was a real question, asked with uncertainty. A thumb caressed Duncan’s cheekbone. 

“Are you?” asked Methos, his voice tight. 

Duncan felt his throat close with all the pent up emotions wanting to pour out of him, his hands restlessly pulling Methos closer. He nodded. “Always,” he said. 

They kissed, hungrier than before, searching past jackets and sweaters. Duncan raked his hand up Methos’s bare back. They were half kissing, half hugging, wanting to crawl into each other’s arms.

“Does this place have a bed?” he asked, looking around.

Methos huffed. “Do I have a bed? Of course I have a bed.”

Duncan laughed, taking the phallic cucumber and tossing it back in the box with the other vegetables. They made their awkward way over to the bedroom nook, falling onto the mattress with Duncan on top, tearing off their clothes. When they got to their underwear, he paused. They wore the exact same design – boxer briefs with a big fleur-de-lis printed on them. It kind of looked like one of the pornographic eggplants, although that could have just been the current state of Duncan’s mind. 

They looked down at their underwear and then at each other. Methos’s slow grin was nothing short of evil. “Is that a cucumb—”

Duncan kissed him, but they were both laughing when Methos flipped them over. 

They eventually made it back to the barge, but the pornographic vegetable stew would have to wait for another day.

**Author's Note:**

> Please pretend box subscriptions services were a thing in the late 90s. :D


End file.
